#invisible string

Seungcheol’s eyebrows shot up. “Uncle Mingyu is coming? When did this happen?”

“This morning! Mama was on the phone and she was laughing really loud and then she said yes to cake!” Naeun had returned to her mission of transforming Kkuma into what appeared to be a four-legged fairy tale character. “She said you were grumpy about getting up early but Uncle Gyu said he’d bring the really good cake from that place with the fancy name you can’t say right.”

“Patisserie Laurent,” Seungcheol muttered, already knowing exactly which place Mingyu meant. Trust his member to remember his weakness for their mille-feuille. “And I wasn’t grumpy, I was tired. There’s a difference.”

“You made that face,” Naeun said matter-of-factly, scrunching up her features in an exaggerated frown that was disturbingly accurate. “The one where your eyebrows touch and Mama laughs.”

Before Seungcheol could defend his morning expressions, the sound of his wife’s laughter drifted from the kitchen, followed by what sounded suspiciously like multiple voices on speakerphone. He recognized the chaos immediately – Seventeen’s group chat had gone live.

“Is that the whole circus?” he asked, settling down on the floor beside Naeun and gently rescuing Kkuma from her latest hair accessory.

“Jeonghan is being mean to Seokmin again,” his wife called from the kitchen, amusement clear in her voice. “Something about stealing his face mask.”

“It was a limited edition!” came Seokmin’s distant, indignant voice through the phone speaker.

Seungcheol shook his head, simultaneously exasperated and fond. Five years of marriage and fatherhood had done nothing to mature his bandmates. If anything, having Naeun around had made them more chaotic, each trying to claim the title of ‘favorite uncle’ through increasingly ridiculous means.

“Appa, can we call Uncle Hannie too? I want to show him Kkuma’s new look,” Naeun said, having successfully managed to get one small bow attached to the dog’s ear. Kkuma looked resigned to her fate.

“Let’s wait until after your tea party, okay? Uncle Mingyu will be here soon and you know how he gets when he’s not the center of attention.”

As if summoned by the mention of his name, the doorbell rang with the specific pattern that could only belong to Kim Mingyu – unnecessarily long and dramatic. Naeun shrieked with excitement and abandoned Kkuma entirely, racing toward the front door with the kind of speed that made Seungcheol wonder if she had inherited more than just his eyes.

“Uncle Gyu! Uncle Gyu!” Naeun’s voice echoed through the hallway.

Seungcheol followed at a more reasonable pace, already smiling at what he knew he’d find. Sure enough, Mingyu was crouched at Naeun’s level, having somehow produced not just the promised cake box but also a small bouquet of daisies and what appeared to be a toy crown.

“Princess Naeun!” Mingyu announced dramatically, placing the crown on her head with ceremonial precision. “Your royal tea party awaits!”

“Did you really bring a crown?” Seungcheol asked, accepting the familiar one-armed hug that Mingyu offered while juggling his various gifts.

“Hyung, I don’t do anything halfway. You know this.” Mingyu’s grin was shameless. “Plus, I may have had help from a certain someone who shall remain nameless but definitely knows a lot about princess accessories.”

“Uncle Wonwoo helped!” Naeun announced, completely ruining Mingyu’s attempt at mystery. “He said princesses need proper headwear for important occasions!”

Seungcheol’s wife appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel and shaking her head with fond exasperation. “Wonwoo called ahead to make sure Mingyu brought age-appropriate entertainment. Apparently, last time’s magic tricks were ‘too easy for the target demographic.’”

“They were great magic tricks,” Mingyu protested. “It’s not my fault Naeun figured out where I was hiding the cards.”

“You left them on the kitchen counter in plain sight,” Seungcheol pointed out.

“Details,” Mingyu waved him off, then turned his attention back to Naeun. “So, Princess, what’s on the agenda for today’s royal gathering?”

What followed was an elaborate explanation of the tea party requirements, including but not limited to: proper seating arrangements for all attendees (including Kkuma, who was apparently the royal pet), specific tea flavors (apple juice was acceptable as a substitute), and a very serious discussion about cake cutting protocol.

Seungcheol watched his daughter command the attention of a grown man who regularly performed in front of thousands, completely unaware of how naturally she held court. There was something magical about the way children could make adults remember how to play, how to find joy in the smallest things.

“She’s got your leadership skills,” his wife murmured, settling beside him on the couch as Mingyu and Naeun began arranging the living room for optimal tea party conditions.

“And your ability to wrap people around her finger,” he replied, pressing a kiss to her temple.

The actual tea party was a masterpiece of organized chaos. Naeun had assigned seats with the precision of a military strategist: herself at the head of the coffee table (which had been draped with her favorite blanket to serve as a proper tablecloth), Mingyu to her right as the guest of honor, her parents flanking the other sides, and Kkuma positioned on a small cushion with her own tiny tea cup.

“Now,” Naeun began, having insisted on wearing her fanciest dress for the occasion, “everyone has to hold their cups like this.” She demonstrated with her small hands positioned just so on her plastic teacup, pinky extended in what she clearly believed was the height of sophistication.

Mingyu, without a trace of self-consciousness, mirrored her posture exactly, even going so far as to straighten his imaginary tie. “Like this, Princess?”

“Perfect! Appa, your pinky isn’t high enough.”

Seungcheol adjusted his grip on his mug with exaggerated precision, earning an approving nod from his daughter. His wife was barely containing her laughter behind her own cup.

“Okay, now we have to toast,” Naeun continued. “Mama taught me. We say something nice and then we clink.”

“What should we toast to?” Mingyu asked seriously.

Naeun considered this with the gravity of a diplomat. “To… to Kkuma being the prettiest princess dog, and to Uncle Gyu bringing the best cake, and to Mama’s apple juice that tastes like tea, and to Appa for making funny faces when he drinks it.”

“I don’t make funny faces,” Seungcheol protested weakly.

“You do,” his wife and Mingyu said in unison, causing Naeun to dissolve into giggles.

They clinked their mismatched cups together, and Seungcheol felt that familiar tightness in his chest that came with these perfect, ordinary moments. This was what he’d been missing all those years on the road – not just the big milestones, but the silly Tuesday morning tea parties and the sound of his daughter’s laughter mixing with his wife’s.

The cake, as promised, was exceptional. Mingyu had somehow convinced the patisserie to create a miniature version of their famous mille-feuille decorated with edible flowers. Naeun insisted on cutting it herself, resulting in uneven slices that she distributed with the solemnity of a judge.

“Uncle Gyu gets the biggest piece because he brought it,” she announced, “but Appa gets the piece with the most flowers because he’s the best appa in the world.”

Seungcheol felt his throat tighten unexpectedly. “Thank you, baby.”

“And Mama gets the prettiest piece because she’s the prettiest mama.”

The conversation flowed easily from there, jumping from topic to topic the way it did when Naeun was involved. She told Mingyu about her new favorite book (something involving a dragon who was afraid of its own fire), demonstrated her latest dance moves (a combination of ballet and what appeared to be taekwondo), and explained in great detail why purple was clearly superior to all other colors.

Mingyu listened to every word with the kind of attention usually reserved for important business meetings, asking follow-up questions and offering commentary that made Naeun beam with importance. Watching them together, Seungcheol was reminded of why he’d fallen in love with this chaotic group of men in the first place – their capacity for genuine care, for making others feel seen and valued.

“Uncle Gyu,” Naeun said suddenly, having finished her cake, “are you sad that you don’t have a little girl like me?”

The question caught everyone off guard. Mingyu’s expression softened, and he reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind Naeun’s ear. “You know what? I’m not sad, because I get to be your uncle. That means I get all the fun parts – tea parties and cake and hearing about dragons – but I also get to spoil you and then send you home to your appa and mama when you’re too full of sugar.”

“That’s sneaky,” Naeun observed approvingly.

“I learned from the best,” Mingyu glanced at Seungcheol with a grin. “Your appa taught me everything I know about being sneaky.”

“I did not—” Seungcheol started to protest, then caught his wife’s knowing look and decided discretion was the better part of valor. “Okay, maybe I taught him a few things.”

The doorbell rang again, interrupting what was surely going to be an embarrassing trip down memory lane. This time, the pattern was shorter but repeated three times – definitely Jeonghan.

“Did you invite more people to my tea party?” Naeun asked, not sounding particularly upset about the prospect of additional guests.

“That would be Uncle Hannie,” Seungcheol’s wife said, already moving toward the door. “He said he had something for Naeun.”

“Something” turned out to be Seokmin, Joshua, and Wonwoo, along with what appeared to be half of a craft store. Jeonghan waltzed in like he owned the place, carrying a bag full of supplies, while the others followed with varying degrees of sheepishness.

“We heard there was a princess in need of proper royal crafts,” Jeonghan announced, dumping his bag on the coffee table with a flourish. “And Seokmin insisted on bringing his guitar.”

“For royal entertainment,” Seokmin added quickly, holding up his acoustic guitar case. “Princesses need proper serenades.”

“I just came to make sure nobody burned down the apartment,” Wonwoo said mildly, though he was already pulling something from his jacket pocket. “Also, I brought more appropriate magic tricks.”

Joshua, ever the gentleman, presented Naeun with a small wrapped box. “I thought you might like these for your next tea party,” he said in his careful, accented Korean.

Inside were a set of actual porcelain tea cups, child-sized but clearly real, painted with delicate flowers. Naeun’s eyes went wide with wonder as she lifted one carefully from its tissue paper nest.

“They’re real grown-up cups,” she whispered, as if speaking too loudly might make them disappear.

“Very real,” Joshua confirmed. “My mom helped me pick them out. She said every princess needs proper tea service.”

“Uncle Shua, they’re the most beautiful cups in the whole world,” Naeun declared, and Joshua’s smile could have powered the entire building.

What had started as a simple tea party was rapidly evolving into something resembling a small festival. Jeonghan had begun spreading out craft supplies with the efficiency of someone who’d clearly planned this in advance, while Seokmin tuned his guitar and Wonwoo shuffled what appeared to be a deck of actual magic cards (as opposed to his previous amateur hour attempts).

“Hyung,” Mingyu leaned over to whisper to Seungcheol, “I think we’ve been upstaged.”

“I think our daughter has an entire entertainment company at her disposal,” Seungcheol replied, watching Naeun flit between uncles like a butterfly sampling flowers.

His wife settled back beside him, shaking her head with amazement. “Remember when we used to worry about her not having enough socialization?”

“I remember when we worried about a lot of things,” Seungcheol said quietly. The early days of fatherhood had been terrifying in ways that performing on stage never was. Every cry, every fever, every milestone had felt monumental and fragile at the same time.

“Look at her now,” his wife murmured.

Naeun was in her element, directing her uncles with the confidence of someone who’d never doubted her place in the world. She’d assigned Jeonghan the task of helping her make crowns for everyone (apparently, one royal crown wasn’t enough for a proper court), while Seokmin provided background music and Wonwoo prepared what he promised would be “actually impressive” magic.

“Uncle Hannie, this one needs more sparkles,” Naeun declared, holding up a construction paper crown that was already ninety percent glitter.

“More sparkles, got it,” Jeonghan replied seriously, reaching for another container of craft supplies. “What about Uncle Gyu’s crown? Should it match his height?”

“Make it extra tall so everyone knows he’s the giant uncle,” Naeun decided.

“I’m not a giant,” Mingyu protested from where he was attempting to fold his long limbs into a child-appropriate sitting position on the floor.

“You’re bigger than the refrigerator,” Naeun pointed out with irrefutable logic.

While the crown-making continued, Wonwoo had set up what appeared to be a proper magic show area, complete with a small table draped with one of Naeun’s blankets. His movements were precise and practiced in a way that suggested he’d been doing more than just casual research into children’s entertainment.

“When did you learn actual magic?” Seungcheol asked, genuinely curious.

“YouTube,” Wonwoo replied without looking up from his card arrangement. “Also, Mingyu’s cousin teaches kids’ magic classes. I may have attended a few sessions.”

“You took magic lessons for my daughter?”

“I took magic lessons for my pride,” Wonwoo corrected. “Getting outwitted by a five-year-old is unacceptable.”

Seokmin, meanwhile, had found the perfect background music tempo – something light and whimsical that made everything feel like a scene from a family movie. His voice hummed along with the melody, unconsciously harmonizing with himself in that way that never failed to remind Seungcheol why they’d all chosen music in the first place.

“Appa,” Naeun appeared at his elbow suddenly, having momentarily abandoned crown construction. “Are you happy?”

The question was so direct, so purely her, that it caught him off guard. “What do you mean, baby?”

“You’re making your thinking face,” she said, climbing onto his lap with the ease of long practice. “The one where you look far away. Are you thinking sad thoughts or happy thoughts?”

Seungcheol wrapped his arms around her small frame, breathing in the scent of her strawberry shampoo mixed with glitter and cake frosting. “Very happy thoughts,” he said truthfully. “I was thinking about how lucky I am.”

“Because you have the best daughter in the world?” Naeun asked with a grin that was pure mischief.

“Because I have the best daughter in the world,” he agreed, “and the best wife in the world, and the most ridiculous uncles in the world who love you almost as much as I do.”

“That’s a lot of bests,” Naeun observed.

“I’m a very lucky appa.”

She seemed satisfied with this answer and settled more comfortably against his chest, content to supervise the ongoing craft production from her new vantage point. Seungcheol caught his wife’s eye across the room and saw his own contentment reflected back at him.

“Naeunie,” Jeonghan called, holding up a completed crown that was somehow even more elaborate than the original. “What do you think of Uncle Wonwoo’s royal headwear?”

The crown in question was a masterpiece of construction paper architecture, featuring multiple layers, an impressive array of gems (plastic, but convincing), and what appeared to be actual feathers. It was also approximately three times too large for any human head.

“It’s perfect,” Naeun declared. “Uncle Wonwoo will be the most royal uncle at the magic show.”

Wonwoo accepted his fate with the stoicism of someone who’d learned that resistance was futile when it came to Naeun’s vision. The crown perched precariously on his head, held in place by sheer determination and possibly divine intervention.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced formally, “prepare to be amazed by feats of wonder and impossible possibility.”

What followed was genuinely impressive. Wonwoo had clearly put considerable effort into learning tricks that would actually surprise and delight a child, rather than the transparent sleight-of-hand that had characterized Mingyu’s previous attempts. Cards appeared and disappeared, coins materialized from behind ears, and somehow he managed to produce a small stuffed rabbit from what had definitely been an empty box.

Naeun was entranced, gasping and clapping at each reveal, but Seungcheol found himself equally captivated by the sight of his normally reserved friend fully committed to entertaining a five-year-old audience. There was something beautiful about watching people step outside their comfort zones for love.

“How did you do that?” Naeun demanded after a particularly impressive card trick.

“Magic,” Wonwoo replied solemnly. “True magic can’t be explained, only experienced.”

“But really, how?”

“Trade secret. Magicians never reveal their methods.”

Naeun considered this seriously, then nodded with acceptance. “Okay, but can you teach me one that I can show Mama later?”

“I think that can be arranged,” Wonwoo said, and Seungcheol made a mental note to prepare for his daughter’s inevitable new obsession with prestidigitation.

The afternoon continued in this vein, flowing from activity to activity with the organic rhythm that seemed to characterize all gatherings involving Naeun. After magic came a mini concert, with Seokmin leading everyone in increasingly silly songs while Joshua provided harmony and Jeonghan added dramatic interpretive dance.

Mingyu had appointed himself official photographer, documenting every moment with the dedication of a professional despite the fact that his subjects kept moving and his main model had a tendency to make faces at the camera when she thought no one was looking.

“Appa, come sing with us,” Naeun called, having climbed onto the coffee table to serve as conductor for what appeared to be an original composition about tea parties and magic shows.

“I don’t know the words,” Seungcheol protested weakly.

“There are no words!” she replied with five-year-old logic. “We’re making them up!”

And so Seungcheol found himself standing in his living room, surrounded by his bandmates and family, singing a nonsensical song about royal cake and magical uncles while his daughter conducted with the serious concentration of a maestro. His wife was laughing so hard she was crying, Kkuma was barking along in what might have been harmony, and somehow it was the most natural thing in the world.

This was what happiness looked like, he realized. Not the roar of crowds or the satisfaction of a perfect performance, but this – chaos and laughter and the complete absence of dignity in service of making one small person feel like the center of the universe.

As the impromptu concert wound down, exhaustion began to set in. Naeun’s energy, while impressive, was not infinite, and the combination of sugar, excitement, and multiple uncles had begun to take its toll. She found herself gravitating back toward Seungcheol’s lap, her movements becoming slower and her blinks longer.

“Someone’s getting sleepy,” his wife observed gently.

“I’m not sleepy,” Naeun protested, even as she curled more firmly against Seungcheol’s chest. “I’m just resting my eyes so I can see the magic better.”

“Of course,” Seungcheol agreed seriously. “That’s very smart princess thinking.”

One by one, her uncles began the process of taking their leave, each stopping to say proper goodbyes and receive official thanks for their contributions to the royal tea party. Jeonghan left behind enough craft supplies to stock a small art classroom, while Wonwoo presented Naeun with a junior magician’s kit and a promise to teach her three tricks at their next meeting.

Seokmin and Joshua coordinated their departure with the efficiency of long practice, but not before Seokmin had been made to promise to bring his guitar to the next family gathering. Mingyu lingered the longest, as he always did, reluctant to leave the peaceful chaos of their little family unit.

“Thank you,” Seungcheol said as he walked Mingyu to the door, Naeun having finally succumbed to sleep in his arms.

“For what? Bringing cake? That’s basic uncle duty.”

“For all of it,” Seungcheol gestured vaguely at the living room, which looked like a craft store had exploded in the most wonderful way. “For loving her like she’s yours.”

Mingyu’s expression grew serious for a moment. “Hyung, she kind of is mine. Yours and hers and all of ours. That’s how family works, right?”

“Yeah,” Seungcheol said quietly, “that’s exactly how family works.”

After Mingyu left, the apartment settled into the peaceful quiet that followed a day well-spent. His wife began the process of cleaning up while Seungcheol carried Naeun to her bedroom, carefully navigating around the various craft projects and new toys that marked the path of her day.

He tucked her into bed still wearing her princess crown, deciding that some rules were made to be broken. She stirred slightly as he pulled her blankets up, just enough to mumble something that sounded like “best tea party ever” before settling back into sleep.

“Sweet dreams, princess,” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

Back in the living room, his wife had made impressive progress on the cleanup, sorting craft supplies and folding blankets with practiced efficiency. Kkuma had reclaimed her favorite spot on the couch, though she was still wearing one small bow from her earlier princess transformation.

“Leave it,” Seungcheol said as his wife reached for the last of the paper crown supplies. “She’ll want to finish those tomorrow.”

“Our dining room table is going to be unusable for a week,” she pointed out, but there was no real complaint in her voice.

“We’ll eat on TV trays. It’ll be an adventure.”

She laughed, settling beside him on the couch and curling into his side with the easy intimacy of years together. “Remember when we thought having a baby would make our lives quieter?”

“I remember thinking a lot of stupid things before she came along,” Seungcheol said, tightening his arms around her. “Like thinking I knew what love was.”

“You’re getting sentimental in your old age, Choi Seungcheol.”

“I’m getting honest in my old age,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the last of the afternoon light fade through their windows. The apartment still hummed with the energy of the day – glitter catching the light, the lingering scent of fancy cake, the echo of laughter in every corner.

“She’s going to remember today forever,” his wife said softly.

“Good,” Seungcheol replied. “I want her to remember that she’s loved. Not just by us, but by everyone who matters to us. I want her to know that our family is bigger than just blood, and that she’ll never have to navigate this world alone.”

“Even when she’s fifteen and hates us for existing?”

“Especially then. That’s when she’ll need Uncle Mingyu to remind her that her parents are actually pretty cool, and Uncle Jeonghan to teach her how to get revenge on mean girls, and Uncle Wonwoo to show her that quiet strength is just as powerful as loud confidence.”

His wife tilted her head to look at him. “You’ve really thought about this.”

“I think about it all the time,” he admitted. “About what kind of life we’re giving her, what kind of person she’s going to become. Today… today I realized I don’t have to worry so much. Look at how she commanded that room, how she made everyone feel special and included. Look at how naturally she loves people and expects to be loved back.”

“She gets that from you, you know.”

“She gets that from both of us. And from them.” He gestured toward the door through which his bandmates had recently departed. “She’s growing up surrounded by people who chose to love each other, who made family out of friendship and commitment instead of just accepting what they were given. That’s not nothing.”

“No,” his wife agreed quietly, “that’s everything.”

Later that evening, after dinner had been eaten off TV trays as predicted and Naeun had been convinced to take a bath despite her argument that princesses didn’t need to wash off their royal sparkles, Seungcheol found himself in her bedroom for the second time that day.

She was already in her pajamas, a set covered in cartoon dragons that seemed to contradict her earlier dedication to princess aesthetics, but somehow made perfect sense for her eclectic personality. Her hair was still damp from the bath, and she smelled like lavender body wash and childhood.

“Appa, will you tell me a story?” she asked as he tucked her in properly this time, having convinced her to remove the crown for sleeping.

“What kind of story do you want?”

“A story about today. But make it like a real story, with once upon a time and everything.”

Seungcheol settled into the chair beside her bed, the same chair where he’d spent countless nights during her infancy, watching her sleep and marveling at the fact that he’d helped create something so perfect and terrifying.

“Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a princess who lived in a magical kingdom with her mama and papa and her loyal companion, a brave white dragon named Kkuma.”

“Dragons can’t be white,” Naeun interrupted drowsily.

“This one could. It was a very special dragon. Now, one day, the princess decided to hold the most magnificent tea party in all the land…”

He wove the day’s events into a proper fairy tale, complete with magical uncles who appeared with gifts and talents, enchanted cakes that granted wishes, and crowns that bestowed special powers upon their wearers. Naeun’s eyes grew heavy as the story progressed, but she fought sleep to hear every detail, occasionally murmuring corrections or additions to ensure accuracy.

“…and so the princess realized that the real magic wasn’t in the tricks or the crowns or even the cake,” Seungcheol continued softly, “but in being surrounded by people who loved her enough to spend their day making hers special. And she lived happily ever after, knowing that whenever she needed them, her magical uncles would appear with exactly what she needed most.”

“What did she need most?” Naeun whispered, though her eyes were already closed.

“Love,” Seungcheol said simply. “She needed to know she was loved, and she was. More than she could ever imagine.”

“That’s a good story, Appa.”

“It’s a true story, baby. The best kind.”

He sat with her until her breathing evened out into the deep rhythm of sleep, then allowed himself a few more minutes to simply watch her. Five years old, with the whole world ahead of her and the unshakeable confidence that came from being unconditionally loved. She would face challenges, heartbreaks, moments of doubt – but she would face them knowing she had an entire chosen family in her corner.

His phone buzzed quietly with a message. The group chat, predictably.

Mingyu: Thanks for today, hyung. I needed that more than you know.

Jeonghan: Same. Nothing like princess duty to put life in perspective.

Wonwoo: I’ve already ordered more magic supplies. Next time I’m doing levitation.

Seokmin: I’m writing a song about royal tea parties. Naeun inspired me.

Joshua: My mom wants to know when the next family dinner is. She’s making Naeun a matching tea set.

Seungcheol smiled, typing back quickly: You’re all ridiculous. She’s going to be so spoiled.

Mingyu: That’s the point of being an uncle.

Jeonghan: Wait until she starts dating. We’re going to be terrifying.

Wonwoo: I’m already researching intimidation techniques.

Seokmin: We have fifteen years to prepare!

Joshua: Thirteen years. Kids grow up fast these days.

Seungcheol could picture them all, scattered across the city but connected by their phones and their shared investment in his daughter’s wellbeing. They’d be there for every birthday, every school play, every milestone and heartbreak. They’d spoil her outrageously and drive him crazy and love her with the fierce protectiveness that had always characterized their approach to family.

He turned off the bedside lamp and padded quietly out of Naeun’s room, closing the door behind him with practiced stealth. His wife was already in their bedroom, propped up against the pillows with a book and a cup of tea, looking completely at peace with the chaos that had been their day.

“How long did the story take?” she asked as he began changing into pajamas.

“Longer than usual. She wanted all the details included for historical accuracy.”

“Of course she did. She’s your daughter.”

Seungcheol climbed into bed beside her, automatically reaching for her hand the way he had every night for years. “Today was perfect.”

“Today was exhausting,” she corrected with a laugh. “But yes, also perfect.”

“I keep thinking about what Mingyu said. About how she’s all of ours. Sometimes I feel guilty about how much they love her, like I’m taking advantage of their kindness.”

“Seungcheol.” His wife set down her book and turned to face him fully. “They don’t love her because they have to. They love her because she’s loveable, and because she’s part of you, and because love multiplies when you share it. You’re not taking advantage of anything – you’re giving them the gift of being part of something beautiful.”

“When did you get so wise?”

“I married you, didn’t I? I had to develop wisdom in self-defense.”

He laughed, pulling her closer and burying his face in her hair. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Even when you get all philosophical about tea parties.”

“Especially then.”

They lay together in comfortable silence, processing the day and preparing for whatever tomorrow would bring. Probably more craft projects, definitely more questions about magic tricks, possibly another impromptu gathering of uncles bearing gifts and chaos.

“Hey,” his wife said suddenly, her voice soft in the darkness.

“What?”

“We’re really good at this, aren’t we? The whole family thing?”

Seungcheol thought about his daughter’s laughter, about the easy way his bandmates had folded themselves into their domestic life, about the casual miracle of ordinary happiness. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “we really are.”

And in the room down the hall, a five-year-old princess slept peacefully, dreaming of magic shows and royal tea parties, secure in the knowledge that she was the center of a universe built entirely from love. Tomorrow there would be more adventures, more laughter, more opportunities to learn that family wasn’t just about the people you were born to, but about the people who chose to show up, day after day, with cake and crowns and an endless capacity for making the ordinary feel magical.

2019, North Dakota

By all accounts this assignment should have been no more difficult than anything else my father has done in his many years as a collector of debts; a simple kidnapping. Considering that I was currently struggling to keep him still while I stitched up the chunk taken out of his ear (who still managed to get away, by the way), it was far from a "simple" grab. He should consider himself lucky - the man tagging along as his partner was now dead.

"We will go to this Sheriff tomorrow and ask for greater payment. What he offered was for the catching of a rabbit, and this woman is far more wild. Dangerous. Perhaps double --"

I quirk a brow at him, holding up the bloody sewing needle as evidence. I've already secured sixteen stitches over the shell of his ear, and could probably add two or three more for good measure. Double the payment still seems barely reasonable.

"Triple, you are thinking?"

I nod ardently, poking through his flesh and cartilage once more to try and bring the raw edges back together.

"Fine. We ask triple. You will join me, yes?"

Typically I don't like hitching along for Papa's business transactions; I find them quite dull. Still, I would rather he not have to go to this meeting alone, so I just nod mechanically .

"Many thanks, cyw." He brushes a thumb against my chin.

The old Welsh pet name he still uses for me, even after all these years, makes me smile. I bow my head, both in respect and in reception of his gratitude.

---

When the morning breaks over the horizon, Papa and I pack up and drive to the ranch where we would be meeting the Sheriff and his son, the Deputy. I don't know their names, I never really cared to ask, but my father has spoken openly about their high-ranking social statuses and immense material wealth, which is made obvious to me the moment we arrive. Frosty land stretches as far as my eyes can see with no dividing fence line in sight. Multiple vehicles line the driveway outside of a huge, ornate ranch house. I even swear I see an outdoor bathtub of some sort where I can just imagine them sitting naked and admiring all of this earth they think they own. Kings in their castle. It makes my stomach churn with disgust. I sneer and spit on their land.

I adjust my thick, dark sunglasses over my pale, violet eyes. My hair is twisted up into two spiky, white space buns with my self-chopped fringe and baby-short bangs delicately framing my forehead. Papa hands me a cigarette that I take graciously, lighting it and inhaling the ash into my lungs to warm my chilled bones.

When we enter the poorly-lit barn building where the meeting will take place, I position myself just behind Papa's left shoulder. The tip of my nose is red from the cold, and I sniffle as it begins to run. I glance at my wristwatch; they are six minutes late. I hold it over Papa's shoulder gruffly and he waves me off with his hand.

"Give them a moment. Making us wait surely makes them feel most important." He spits out dryly, glowering at the entryway.

I'm growing impatient and agitated.

Finally, after five more agonizing minutes, the men strut in. The Sheriff enters first, with his faded jeans, boots, a cowboy hat, and a nice button-down with a tan shearling coat over everything. He leads with his chest, telling me everything I need to know about his priorities.

Himself. End of story.

The other man, who I can only assume to be the Deputy, has his head down with a black baseball cap covering his eyes as he pulls from a vape pen. He puffs out a plume of acrid, fruity, smoke, but when it clears and I see his face the breath catches in my throat.Time stops.I rip the glasses from my face as if a reflection of the light may be playing some cruel trick on me.

By choice, I haven't used my voice in many, many years. I don't even remember what it sounds like anymore. But, as my eyes frantically scan his face, his form, the very patterns of the moles and freckles adorning his skin, it's like the words are pulled from my lips by an invisible string. It comes out whispier and much lower than I expected, like it's just a ghost of the me; another version that I used to be, merely using my husk as a conduit to speak through.

"Ul...rich?"

The Deputy's eyes flick over to me, trailing up and down several times, taking in my appearance with his brow severely arched.

"What's that?" He mutters back at me.

His voice is even the same as I remember - granted there's a slightly different intonation, and he's speaking English instead of German...but still.

I step around my father and inch towards him, my legs feeling like they're going to give way at any moment. I get close enough to see his eyes and that's all I need to confirm what I already know. Those warm pools of hazel - sweet and somber, piercing and wild - I have pictured these same exact eyes in my mind every day of my miserable fucking existence. I raise my hand tentatively to skim the sharp angle of his jaw, and he flinches, but allows me to explore. Just feeling him tangibly under my palm makes me laugh tearfully in disbelief.

"Your...eyes." I whimper, lightly stroking his chin.

Yes, I know these eyes; and so the longer I look into them, I begin to realize the bitter, unsettling truth. From the way he's looking back at me, I can see that he has no idea who I am. I can feel the tears spilling over my blonde lashes and a pang of hurt in my chest that grips like a vice. All the rest of the words I may have said freeze in my throat and will not come out. At the lingering touch of a stranger and my choked, awkward silence, the Deputy shifts his feet and glances at Munch, nodding towards me, but not addressing me directly.

"Who's the albino?"

The albino?

My heart might actually burst. I may vomit here on this dirt. Might as well let them chop me up and feed me to their hogs. Instead I just drop my hand from his skin and pull from my cigarette to at least take in one steady breath, forcing the smoke aggressively from my nostrils like a dragon. The universe could be such a cruel cunt. I dejectedly take my place behind Papa once more. He looks at me over his shoulder, equally stunned at my display, but not wanting to make a huge deal of it in front of the strangers. He tilts his head at the Deputy menacingly.

"She is to me what you are to your father; yet, she is actually quite useful to me."

The Deputy sniffs at the insult and squares up his shoulders to seem more intimidating. I notice that he steals a sidelong glance to the Sheriff, mimicking the way he is standing. My own shoulders shake once with a silent, humorless laugh, and I take another drag from my cigarette.

"Alright then, smartass. Whole lotta good she did on this job, huh?"

"She does not interfere in small matters, though maybe she should have joined in this endeavor. You call the woman to be taken just that - a housewife. All the while keeping it to yourselves that she is quite actually a tiger." Papa grumbles, wincing at the pain in the side of his head.

"You and that dipshit, Donny, got your shit rocked by a girl that weighs maybe 100 pounds, soakin' wet. Didn't think that'd be too much for ya to handle there, Munch."

We both glower in response.

"Police take her?" The Sheriff grits out.

Papa pulls another cigarette from his coat pocket and holds it up between two fingers, and without hesitation I hover the burnt end of mine over his to light it. He takes a deep, contemplative inhale and speaks through the smoke.

"Fled, after killing my man. Whether home, or simply into the wind, one cannot say."

The other two men both prime themselves to argue, but I hold up a single, stark white hand to silence them. The fact that it works seems to surprise even them. My father turns to look at me over his shoulder and I make a face with a gesture to signify that I want to know what the hell he even needs this woman for. To the others it probably looks like nothing transpires, but Papa and I understand each other implicitly.

"What do you want with her?" He asks them plainly.

Even though it was my father that spoke, the Sheriff responded to me as if they were my words. Which I suppose, actually, they are.

"No offense little lady, but I don't think you're part of this job. Munch, that your name? I wasn't aware it was 'Bring Your Daughter to Work Day', otherwise I woulda brought my two little girls instead of Gator, here. But just hush up now, princess, and let the men figure this out."

So, Gator is his name now. Also, his father is a complete and total cunt.

"We two are cut of the same cloth, Sheriff. She runs with the rabbits, but rest assured, she too hunts with the hounds. She earns her place at the table. So, the question stands. What are your intentions with the tiger?"

"I think that's none of your business, snowflake. Now why dontcha get on back to your car and let us finish in here. You're distractin' my boy." Roy spits a wad of brown, tobacco-thickened saliva from his lips and smirks at me.

I could rend the head from his shoulders. Actually, the thought is making me giddier by the minute. I throw my cigarette to the ground, pulverizing it under my thick-soled combat boot. I know at this point my face must be beet red with anger, my head is pounding from the blood rushing through it. I scowl and turn on my heel to leave Papa to complete the dealings on his own. He's more than capable, I don't know what I was thinking coming here.

Still, my heart is weak and starved for its other piece, so I am unable to resist glancing over my shoulder once more to look at Gator. He notices, his eyes meeting mine, and I can't tell yet if that fills me with dread or with glee.

Memories that are never far beneath the surface of my mind begin to creep in, and as I swipe my hand across the tears staining my cheeks and storm back to our car, I recall how I once knew the man now known as Gator Tillman.

1625, Würzburg, Germany

I cry.

This rain is cold. It is cold against my skin. It hurts my eyes. It runs into my eyes because I do not close them. I do not close them because I look up at my mother. It hurts my eyes because I cry. The tears are hot and this rain is very cold. I look up at my mother.

My mother is now dead. She has been burned. Burning is hot and this rain is very cold. Does this cold rain soothe my mother? Or does it hurt her like it does my burning eyes?

I do not know, and she cannot tell me.

I look up at my mother.

I cry.

The man from the Church told me that she was a witch. He said I should not be sad because witches are evil and should be dead. I wish he were dead.

I do not think my mother was a witch. Even if she were, I do not care. My mother was a very good mother. She loved me very much and took very good care of me.

She found me in the woods when I was a baby. She told me I was laid upon an orange lily in the forest near the mountains, naked and sleeping peacefully. She said that a little doe had been watching over me, then offered me to her.

I told her this was silly. Babies do not sleep upon orange lilies and does do not watch over human children. But she said I was silly, and that it was all true. So, I believed her.

I do not look like my mother. I wish I did. My mother has fiery red hair that curls to her waist and beautiful freckles dusting her cheeks. Her eyes are a lovely shade of dark green and she smiles brighter than sunlight. Her hugs are warm and she never breaks them first.

I look like nothing. My skin is without color or blemish. My hair falls pin straight and is pure white. My brows and lashes are white, too. Mother used to say, "white as the pretty, puffy clouds moving through the sky on a spring day", or "white as the fresh-fallen snow on the mountains." She said those things because they were some of my favorite things, and she was a very good mother.

I thought I looked like a ghost. I thought that because when people in the town would see us together they stared at me like I had frightened them. I am only six, and none of the other children had adults looking at them this way. So, I thought, maybe I look like a ghost.

It was like God started to make another masterpiece of a human being, bursting with color like my mother was, but forgot that I was only a sketch before He sent me out.

It made me feel very hollow and lonely most of the time. Because of this, and because the sunlight did indeed hurt my pale eyes, I stayed inside with my mother a lot. She reads to me. She was not supposed to do that because the men from the Church said that women should not read, but she still did it because she was a very good mother.

I loved it when she would read to me.

I liked to pretend that I was beautiful and colorful like the faeries and princesses and even the goblins in the storybooks. I even learned to write. That is when I began to write my own stories.

Day in and day out I would let my mind wander and create fantastic tales of creatures and beasts and bright, magical worlds. Very rarely are the monsters the bad ones in my stories. Monsters just scare people. Scared people do far worse things than monsters.

One afternoon the men from the Church came to our home. They asked my mother a lot of questions, especially about who my father was. I never had a father, at least not one that I knew. She told them he was a soldier that died, but they did not believe her. Neither did I.

They called her ugly words, words that I will never repeat, and they said she was a witch. They said she was to be given a trial. I know what a trial means, so I will go to her in the morning so that I may be there to watch. I want to tell them that she is a very good mother.

I stayed alone that night in our little house and ate some bread I found in the kitchen. It was dark and a thunderstorm came through, and I was very scared. I slept in her bed because it smelled like her and that made me feel less frightened.

I awoke very early in the morning, before the sun, so I could walk into town without hurting my eyes. If I needed to go out during the day my mother went with me so I could close my eyes, because she is a very good mother.

It was still raining, though no longer a thunderstorm. Fat, cold, steady droplets fell from the sky, but I kept going forward.

I made my way through the town square and stopped when I smelled a terrible thing. It was like when my mother cooked meat for supper, but it was sickly and wrong.

It was then I saw the pyres. It was then I saw my mother's burned body upon them. The men from the Church lied. She had no trial.

A trial is for talking and for fairness. For telling all the truths. She couldn't have had a trial because I did not get to come and tell my truth. That she is a very good mother, the only one I have, and that I cannot live without her.

Would the men have cared, anyway?

My mother is now dead. She has been burned. Burning is hot and this rain is very cold. Does this cold rain soothe my mother?

I hope it does.

The sun begins to break through the clearing rain clouds. It is fiery orange, almost the color of my mother's hair. Maybe that is her, I think. Maybe she turned to vapors and lives in the sunrise. That suits her better, anyhow.

But just the bit of sun peeking through behind the clouds is enough for a dull ache to form behind my eyes. I cup my hands over them and stay there beside her, preparing to spend the day blindly at her feet.

Feet.

Footsteps crunch towards me in the gravel. I am frightened and stay very still. The steps stop, and I peek between my fingers.

It is the tallest person I have ever seen, a man with strange clothes and a sad face. He might even look scary if it weren't for his eyes. His eyes are blue and soft and very kind. Maybe he is one of the monsters from my stories come to save me. I will not be scared then, because scared people do far worse things than monsters.

"Hello." I mumble.

"Hello, girl. Is this...your mother?" His voice is deep and the accent is strange, though he speaks my language well. He must not be from here, though.

I simply nod, looking up at my mother once more. He looks at her too, his jaw set firm and nose wrinkling in disgust.

"Will your father come and get you?"

I shake my head no because I do not have a father.

At that moment the clouds break fully and the harsh rays of the sun pierce my delicate eyes. I wince and cry out, cupping my hands over them again and curling inward towards my mother's feet.

"The sun. It hurts you?"

"Yes." Is all I mutter.

I feel strong hands under my arms lifting me up off the ground and my head rests on his wide shoulders.

"I do not want to leave my mother." I whisper in his ear.

"Your mother will not leave you, cyw. But she is not in that husk anymore."

I nuzzle further into his neck and peek once more, straining to get one more look at her before we go.

The man is right, though. I feel her more in the sun on my shoulders than I do looking at this charred form on the pyre. That makes me feel a bit better.

My mother is a very good mother; the biggest and brightest in the sky.

1642, Gössenheim, Germany

I sit in my little attic bedroom sketching a small, puffy, orange finch that is perched on my windowsill. He chirps his sweet, soft melody, brightening my room with his song.

A jarring crash outside rips us from our peaceful haven, and the finch flutters quickly away into the nearby wood.

My shoulders slump in disappointment with a scowl, padding over towards the window to see the cause of the ruckus.

A man with a cart and mule was stopped on the small path outside our home, barrels and crates toppled over into the muddy earth and bright, colorful produce spilling out from some of them. The man curses under his breath and shoves the contents back inside, reloading his cart with a huff.

I glance down at my sketch and there is a jagged black streak across the page from where my hand drug the charcoal upon being startled. Grumpily, I wad it up into a ball, with a few other sheets to add some heft, and hurl it out the window at the man.

It smacks him square on his temple. When he whips around to face me, the breath is stolen from my very lungs.

His thick, dark-brown hair flops over his brow; a strong brow that frames his eyes; beautiful, warm, earthy toned eyes, browns and greens that remind me of the lush forest I admire from my room each day. His nose is long and straight, sitting perfectly in the center of his face, and just below it are the most precious pair of full, pink, bowed lips I have ever seen.

But the thing I admire most, even from my attic window, are the freckles and moles adorning his face, neck, and even his exposed arms. There are several spanning his cheek, trailing down his throat and disappearing into the collar of his pale blue shirt.

I love them. I want to count them, I want to trace them with my eyes, and with my fingertips, and --

"Well, hello angel!"

Oh, his voice sounds just as warm as he looks. He smiles brightly, and that about does me in. It is crooked, tilting up more to his right side, and it is perfect.

I feel heat creeping up my chest, throat, and cheeks (and shockingly through the apex of my thighs), but when I blush it is so painfully obvious and I look as though I have been attacked by swarms of bees. I despise it. I squeak and dart behind the side of the window.

"Oh, please do not hide, sweet angel! I quite like the view from down here. Makes the labor worth doing!"

I can hear him squelching in the mud and tossing more produce into barrels, but at a much slower pace. A smile spreads across my face as I peek my head around the sill.

He is indeed still watching the window closely, and as soon as he sees my shock of white hair he grins his boyish grin once more. I remain half-hidden in the shadows, but wave my hand awkwardly at the man. He waves heartily back and places his hands on his hips, squinting up at me.

"Pray, fraulein, would you help a poor soul? My damn mule drug the cart over this beast of a rock and most of my income for the year is here in the mud. I am on my way to market and need to be there in just a few hours! The work would go much quicker with two!"

Papa was gone; he would be out surveying for a few days yet. Normally he preferred I stay indoors during the day, both for my eyes and to keep me safe from those that would do me harm.

But...this man was struggling. His crop was spoiling in the dirt. Papa certainly wouldn't object to me helping this poor soul out...would he?

No, no. Certainly not. It is the proper, Christian thing to do.

I nod at the man once, curtly, and walk downstairs. My heart is going to flutter free of my chest, I just know it.

I grab my cap and secure it over my hair to shade my eyes as best as I could. I still squint as soon as the door opens and I step into the late morning light. The sun would soon be at its highest, and during that time I would really need to be inside; it was far too intense for me.

I give a small, polite curtsy to the gentleman and kneel down to quietly begin putting some zucchini into crates in neat, tidy rows.

A large, calloused hand, caked with mud, extends out to me. I freeze and slowly drag my gaze up his strong, thick legs, his narrow waist and broad shoulders, all the way back to his lovely face. The smile he wears now is gentle, but his eyes are absolutely glittering as they rake over my face.

"Hello, lovely. I am Ulrich. What can I call you?"

I try and stop the trembling in my fingers long enough to place them in his hand without revealing just how terrified I actually am.

I can't quite remember the last time I spoke with a man my age, alone. Actually, the three of those things together? Never.

I tell him my name, and he tries the taste of it on his tongue. It has never sounded so rich and tantalizing as it does when Ulrich says it.

"Do you live here alone?"

"No. With my Papa."

"Is he here with you? I would love to thank him for blessing the world with such a treasure of a woman."

I stare back down at my feet as the pinkness floods my features. I hear him swipe his hand on his work pants then feel his rough fingers carefully lift my chin, tipping my head to look back up at him.

"You do not have to hide from me. You are the most beautiful creature I have ever laid my eyes on, I cannot take them off of you. They are hungry for you."

"I...do not think I am very beautiful. I often wish that I were more interesting to look at. Dark eyes, or freckles. Like...you."

Despite his skin being thoroughly tanned from working in the sun, I can see the redness begin to color his cheeks as well. It makes me swell a bit with pride, and I feel a boldness that was previously foreign to me.

"Are you thirsty, Herr Ulrich? Can I offer you a glass of water or ale before you leave for the market?"

"Oh, I am parched."

---

The cup of lukewarm water sits untouched on the kitchen table.

Ulrich and I spoke for a few minutes about his home and his work, and my father and his work. Then, unlike anyone else I've encountered in my life, he asked about me - what things I liked. What I did for work, or fun. Where I slept.

Loosely taking his fingers in my own, I lead him up the stairs to my attic bedroom.

His eyes go wide as he scans the papers littering the walls, all of my sketches and some dribbles of short poetry I felt particularly proud of.

"These are - you are a marvel, angel."

I roll my eyes pertly and sit on the edge of my bed, watching him wander my space. His fingers trace over the back of the wooden chair at my desk, and my mind cannot help but wonder what it would be like if he were tracing my curves and edges instead. He stops suddenly to look down at his cart from my window, then back at me with a confused expression. He playfully storms up to me, hands sternly on his hips, but a smile cracks his features.

"Why did you hit me with that ball of paper!? You distracted me with your beauty, but I remember now! You struck me!"

I giggle in spite of myself, covering my mouth with my fingers and leaning away from his towering presence.

"Aah! Because you ruined my drawing! I worked very hard on it, but you startled me and it was destroyed! The little finch was upset, too. He sat still for quite some time so I could sketch him. I should say you owe him and I both an apology, Herr Ulrich."

I manage a forlorn little pout and bat my lashes at him. Ulrich's jaw is slack and he blinks slowly, taking in all of my wild accusations. I burst into laughter and he follows suit, raking his fingers through his hair.

"You are no angel, I fear."

"Oh?" I ask, swiping a tear from the corner of my eye and trying to stifle the laughs.

"No, ma'am. You are a little devil."

The small ember in my belly is stoked to life, burning hot, flames licking down into my groin. I sit up straighter, shift my hips and place my hands in my lap, doing my absolute best to look proper once again.

"Apologies, Herr Ulrich."

"No, no. I love it. You are unlike anyone I have ever known, liebchen. It is like you are devouring me, my very mind."

He steps closer, reaching out to pull the cap off of my head. I let him.

My blinding white hair falls free, nearly reaching my waist. A small exhale escapes his lips as he tosses the cap aside casually. My chest is rising and falling faster as he takes another step, his knees almost touching my own before he drops to them on the floor in front of me.

"Even your eyes, my God. The color of lavender or a wisp of early sunrise. Is there any flaw to you at all? It surely is not fair for you to be so...perfect?"

"Herr Ulrich, you mock me now. Stop it."

He takes my hand in his and gently tugs it to lay over his heart, and I can feel the quick thrumming beat beneath the hard muscle of his chest.

"I mean every word. May I...may I look upon...all of you?"

I should run from the house screaming, I really should. I should go until I find my father and tell him a man came into the house and asked to see me bared to him in the middle of the day. I should be so disgusted that I hit him in his handsome face until he is ugly.

Instead, I angle myself so that my back is facing him, moving my hair over my shoulder to expose the laces of my bodice. Ulrich nimbly loosens the cord through each eyelet, and I try to ignore the pang of jealousy when my mind begins to wonder why he's so deft at it. My breathing becomes easier as the corset is loosened, and I slip my arms through. I'm now in just a thin, white cotton slip that stops at my ankles.

Normally my skin is a similar color to the slip, but right now I am positively boiling and pink all over; Ulrich is breathing color into me.

I can see his own breath quicken as he drinks in the sight of me in much less clothing. The peaks of my nipples are quite visible under the thin material, as are most of the dips and crevices of my body.

"Y-you will do the rest as well?" I whisper. "I do not think I can make myself."

"If you do not wish to --"

"No! I do. My hands...they just don't know that yet, I am afraid."

He chuckles at that, still on his knees before me as I stand. His fingers ghost under the hem of my slip and begin to glide it up my legs. The closer he gets to my middle the more tense I feel my abdomen become, like a band is close to snapping inside of me. He gives my flanks a light squeeze and I gasp. He gives me a coy, questioning glance and I nod shakily for him to continue, so he props himself on a knee to stand.

He drags those rough hands over my clenching stomach, tracing the outline of my breasts with his thumbs, and finally pulling the slip over my head. It takes all of my willpower not to cross my arms to cover myself, but the way he is looking at me I think he might would tear them off at the shoulder if I tried.

"U-Ulrich?"

"Hm?" He doesn't look me in the face, his eyes wild and drinking in every part of my exposed flesh.

"Your turn? I want to look upon all of you...too."

Clearly, I felt all of the hesitation for both of us. He is quickly stripping his clothes free in a flurry of linen, almost stumbling and falling straight out of my open bedroom window. I snort and cover my mouth at that, and he glances over smiling.

My amusement only lasts a moment, as I'm quickly just as distracted as he was at my nakedness. His body is lean and strong, skin bronzed by the sun and dotted with moles everywhere. There's a dusting of dark hair leading from his chest down to his belly, then even further down to his --

My God, his cock. I've never seen one not sketched in books. They could never compare. It's thick and standing proudly, a dark blue vein running underneath. There's something glistening at the tip, and my hand twitches to touch it but I quickly remember myself and pull it back.

"You can..." All joking has left his tone as he swallows nervously, his own hands clenched at his sides.

I tilt my head at him and he nods, moving to sit on the edge of my bed where I had been before. He lays back on his elbows, knees bent and feet planted on the floor. This angle makes his erection even more prominent, and I can't help but feel drawn to it.

I settle on my knees on the floor, caging myself between his thick, muscular thighs. When my fingers graze the tip of him, his cock jumps away. I shriek a little and he tips his head back and laughs.

"I apologize if it scares you, angel. I assure you he will not bite, he is just excited. Far too eager."

He sounds jovial, but I can tell his voice is strained and the vein in his neck is bulging.

"I can touch you...here?" I hover my hand over the ruddy tip and he nods once without taking his eyes off of me.

"I would love it if you did."

I tuck my lower lip between my teeth and touch him more surely this time, holding him around the thickest part in the middle and gently squeezing. His entire body shudders at the contact and he whines, sheets clenched in his fists.

"What does it feel like?" I ask, delighted by this responsiveness.

"Like I am one step closer to you, basking in your light. It is so warm, and feels prickly on my skin."

"Hmm. And if I slide my hand up to here?" I glide my hand upward to the moistened head, a small bead of the milky fluid gathering at the slit, and his head lolls back with a groan.

My lips curl into a grin. I bring the tip to my mouth to leave a small kiss there, then gently lick the wetness from him. It's salty and thick, distinct from anything I've tasted before. Then I get the urge to gently suck the head clean, and his body lurches, more of the hot, salty substance pulsing into my mouth and across my cheeks. I cough and sputter, swiping at my face.

I look at Ulrich with surprise, and he looks at me with red cheeks and shame in his eyes.

"Oh, angel! I apologize, I -- but -- did you put me in your mouth?"

"Should I not have done so? I am sorry, Ulrich. I just wanted to taste you."

He shakes his head, eyes glued to me, and he smiles wider than I've seen yet.

"You are a devilish little thing. No, I liked it very much. Your turn?"

"Mine?"

"I'd like to taste you, too."

He stands and gently lays me on the bed, positioning himself on his knees at the end like I just was. Lightly gripping each of my ankles he spreads me open, marveling at the slickness of my cunt.

"Such a pretty little thing." He mumbles to himself before kissing my mound of hair and dipping his tongue between my folds.

It's like a flash of blinding white heat. I yelp and shoot up onto my hands, grabbing his hair and ripping his face away from me. He looks genuinely saddened, like he was a starving man being torn from his favorite meal.

"What is it, did I--"

"No, tell me?? What was that? I felt it...everywhere!"

A positively wicked smirk spreads across his face.

"Have you ever touched yourself here? For pleasure, not for cleanliness or...boring stuff."

My cheeks and ears flare red hot as I shake my head no.

"The men at the Church used to say that was sinful. I haven't...can you try it once more?"

Ulrich nods and kisses my inner thigh again, scraping it with his teeth. My entire leg quakes and it brings a low chuckle from inside him.

"Eager thing."

"Yes." I breathe.

With his eyes locked onto mine he flicks the point of his tongue against me and I try to keep myself still. I hiss between my teeth and my hips buck involuntarily, grinding me harder against his face. He plants two hands on the backs of my thighs and pushes them up against my chest, pinning me in place.

His tongue swirls and gently swipes over the same, delicate spot and I start to feel like I am unraveling at my core. Crude, lustful moans fall from my lips and I grip my own hair to keep myself grounded here on this plane.

Then I feel him licking into me lower, deeper, his tongue curling in such a way that my walls clench around it, desperate for more.

"That...is...nice." I pant between heaving breaths, propping myself up to try and look between my legs and see this magic he is performing with his mouth.

"Would you like me to use my hand as well?" He mutters against me, chin sparkling with my juices. It's obscene and divine to witness.

"O-okay? That feels good?"

"I will make it so." Ulrich croons, moving his mouth back to the little bud that makes me see stars when he suckles at it.

While I lean into that thrilling sensation, another one, a new one, takes its place. One of his fingers slowly pulses between his lips and my sex, pushing in slowly and breaching my entrance.

I wince at first, tightening around his finger and signaling for him to wait. He does, holding his hand perfectly still and continuing to lave at my core. I breathe deeply and rock my hips forward once, slipping his finger inside to the second knuckle. It glides easier through my wetness now that I've adjusted, and so I nod for him to try again.

Ulrich carefully thrusts his finger in and out of me, shallowly at first, coating his digit in my arousal. My eyes flutter closed as the sensation begins to warm my belly again, and when he curls his finger I arch my back onto the mattress and tangle my fingers into his hair, not caring at all that my hips may or may not be rutting into him frantically. At this point I was no longer in control of my own body.

With a cry of his name I feel an explosive release of all the tension in my body at once, shivering and sighing, a smile plastered on my face. I open my eyes and Ulrich is leaning over me, arms on either side of my head, grinning like a madman.

"I would love to try all of that once more." I pant.

He lowers himself and kisses me reverently and slow.

"Little devil." He whispers into my mouth, nipping at my lower lip.

---

Ulrich never did make it to the market that day.

In fact, he stays the night, and in the morning travels home to drop his mule and produce back at the farm where he lives with his sister and her husband. Once it was all situated and they knew he would be gone for a little while, he came straight back to me.

We spend four blissfully domestic days together in my home.

At night we walk through the wooded paths in the moonlit dark, staying up well into the wee hours of the morning just talking. We spin tales of fantasy and feed each other morsels of raw truth.

I show him how to draw with my charcoals, and even sketch a portrait of him. I place it in the small drawer next to where I lay my head to sleep at night.

"So you are never too far from my bed, Ulrich." I tease. He wraps his arms around my middle and kisses my nose and cheeks.

"I pray I never will be again, liebchen."

When my father returned home it became more difficult to see each other. I was unsure how he would react to a strange man in the home, so I asked Ulrich to give me a few days of secret so I could speak with him first.

He did as I asked, of course, but still came to my window each night when the moon was high to whisk me away to our special place deep in the heart of the wood. We thought we were so clever; little did I know my father watched with a smirk from the window as we ran into the treeline, clutching hands and giggling like fools.

It was three nights later that it all ended. I hate remembering this part.

Ulrich tosses two pebbles at my window. I am already awake and eagerly perched at the edge of my bed, awaiting the first smack of the stone. I slip through the darkness of my home, blow an unseen kiss to my father upstairs, and steal through the night with my beloved.

We were so enveloped in one another that we did not see the two men lurking in the shadows of the wood. Even if we had, we could never have predicted their wickedness.

We make it to the clearing and Ulrich lays a blanket out for us. Lying flat on our backs, we look up at the night sky awash with stars, fingers and souls intertwined.

"I think I would like to meet your father tomorrow."

"Oh?" I roll onto my side, eyeing him suspiciously. "Why is that?"

"I would like to ask him if I might have your hand in marriage. Then asking you, of course."

My heart. Oh, there it goes. It flutters away, it is beating so fast. My jaw falls open and I can feel the prickling of tears behind my eyes. He just continues to stare up at the stars, but a sly smile works its way onto his lips as he can feel me gaping at him.

"Ulrich...Ulrich!"

I pounce onto his chest, peppering his face with kisses and falling tears. When I sit up we simultaneously realize that I am straddling his waist, my bare center pressing against the fast-growing bulge in his trousers.

I gently roll my hips over him and his face shutters in bliss. With one of my more mischievous grins, I begin methodically unlacing the front of my bodice and tugging it free. I slip the sleeves of my tunic dress down my arms and push the wide neck down to the dip in my waist, exposing my naked chest in the pale night.

Ulrich exhales through puffed cheeks and puts his arms behind his head instead of touching me like I thought he would.

"Is it safe to say this is an acceptance of my proposal?"

I lightly smack his chest and we laugh. The last we would ever share together.

As I lean my chest down to kiss his sweet lips, a twig snaps in the forest loud enough to alert us both. I scramble to pull my dress back over myself, not bothering with the corset.

My first thought was Oh no! A fox; a wolf; a bear! But it was much worse; it was men.

The first one appears through the brush with a sneer, eyes greedily flicking over my indecent dress and our suggestive position, Ulrich sitting up with me in his lap.

"Care to share, young man?" He grins wide and the few teeth he had remaining were rotted and brown.

Ulrich shifts me off of his lap to kneel beside him, cradling me to his chest to try and conceal me from the stranger's violating gaze.

"Be gone before I slit your throat."

"Big, big words for just a little boy."

Another branch cracks and leaves rustle behind us. As we look forward at the one, the other descends and rips Ulrich and I apart from one another. I shriek, he roars.

The man holding my arms to my sides smells rancid, with long, ragged fingernails that scrape my skin. I continue to scream - for Ulrich, for Papa, for God - whoever was listening.

"No use in it, fraulein." He grunts into my ear, licking the skin behind it. I retch at the stench of his breath and the slimy feel of his tongue.

"It is alright, liebchen, listen to me! It is going to be alright."

And for the next few moments, I do not remember any sounds. I wonder now if an angel was covering my ears. But the sight - the sight is one I still playback in my mind centuries later.

As Ulrich holds his hands up, trying to soothe me, the man behind him grips his beautiful, dark, chestnut brown hair - rich tendrils that I loved to rake my fingers through and nuzzle against when we laid side by side, breathing in the scent of him - and runs the blade across his throat.

It paints the pale blue of his linen shirt with crimson. He looks confused, reaching up to his neck as if he could fix it somehow. Then he sees me; thrashing wildly in the other man's arms and begging for some divine retribution, which would come in the form of my father who had heard my screams and hightailed it into the forest where he knew we were.

My father is a collector of debts. Moral ones. There was not a price these men could pay that would make this right, so by default they pay the highest one.

Papa slinks behind the man, who is laughing as Ulrich chokes on his own blood, and buries an axe in his skull. The man behind me releases my arms in shock, so I turn and leap at him, clawing at his eyes and sinking my teeth into the side of his neck. I rip a chunk of flesh free and spit the meat to the ground. Blood sprays from the wound and coats my white dress.

He stumbles back into a tree, and Papa staggers up behind me and swings the axe into his belly so hard that it sticks into the bark. We leave him pinned there to die in agony.

Slowly I come back into my physical self.

I fall upon the body of Ulrich, still just barely a twinkle in his gentle, loving eyes. I bring his hand to my cheek. Papa kneels on the other side of him, witnessing. I smile despite myself and look excitedly to my father.

"Ulrich, this is my father. Papa, this is my Ulrich. We are very much in love, and he was to ask you for my hand tomorrow. Won't you say yes, Papa?"

"Cyw..."

Ulrich weakly places a thumb over my lips to hush my ramblings. I watch as the light behind his eyes goes out, and his hand falls away.

I scream.

---

Papa waits there with me until morning, neither of us saying a word. I cradle Ulrich's hand until it is stiff and cold like stone. The sunrise starts, and I must close my eyes. Papa goes to the house to fetch my bonnet, securing it over my head to protect them.

He sits with me some more.

It's hours before he says to me, "Cyw...a father is tortured at the thought of doing anything to harm his daughter...but he also sees the pain she suffers."

I carefully brush a few loose strands of Ulrich's hair from his face to keep it out of his eyes. Papa gently places his fingers on my wrist to stop me and I tear my eyes from my beloved to look at him.

"Do you know what I am?"

I know my father is incredibly, miraculously old. I know he doesn't sleep. I know he does not tell me of the work he does. What those things mean? I do not have a clue.

He tells me that once he was hungry, and men offered for him to eat food holding the sins of a dead man. A wealthy, greedy man. It cleansed that man in preparation for the afterlife, but dirtied my father's soul, cursing him to a neverending existence with little to no feelings of true enjoyment.

"If you wish to...eat his sins, now. Perhaps you can grant him peace everlasting, and find comfort in that. Then, too, you can stay with me...always."

His eyes hold so much sadness, I wonder what they have seen in the many decades he has been alive. Would I want to go on so long? Should I just let this life blink away, let the tides of time take me, too? Then again, I have this chance to ensure Ulrich knows true peace. And maybe if I do this, I'll take a piece of his soul with me.

And then - maybe - I can find him again someday.

---

Papa prepares the ritual, and to God and my betrothed I promise:

I have known your love; I swallow your pain,

So rest until you are home again.

I take your sins; your soul is free

To find its way back home to me.

Amen.

Where my father describes the sins he ate as bitter and bland, Ulrich's are decadent and sweet. As I eat them, I begin to know several things. That I will traverse this mortal plane for eternity until I meet him again; that I will never know another love, and he will never fade from my memory; and that when I find him, I will not let him go.

2019, North Dakota

I sit on the hood of our car with a freshly lit cigarette. Murmured voices filter between buildings, but I'm not getting up until I have to. I'm still feeling a little numb.

I watch the clouds lazily drift across the still morning sky until sharp, loud pops of nearby gunfire pierce the air. My cigarette rolls off the hood of the car onto the cold, dry earth. I stand, craning my neck in the direction of the sound and trying to look between structures, fencing, and trees, but I can't see through well enough to make anything out.

So, I begin to run. I drop down onto the ground and sprint low, as quickly and quietly as I am able. I crouch behind a rusty, half-assembled, ancient work truck and peek around the grill. Two men lie dead in front of another barn building, and my father shoves Gator into the dirt with a gun in his hand. He's coughing and spitting up bile, clutching his wrist to his chest; I can see from here that it's bent at an unnatural angle.

Papa aims the barrel directly between Gator's eyes and I before I even have time to process what I'm seeing my mouth is screaming, "Stop!"

His head whips around. The kindness usually kept for me in his deep, blue eyes is replaced by a hunger, a visceral fear response. They must have chosen to attack him instead of paying what was owed -- does that mean I was next?

Gator holds his unbroken arm up, pleading to my father to be spared. If it weren't him, I would say no. If it weren't the other half of my soul in that body, I would pull the trigger myself. Fortunately for Gator, whether he knew it or not, that saves him today. He looks so pitiful, down on his knees, crying with a string of saliva clinging to his chin.

Papa keeps the gun on him, but allows me to step closer. I kneel in front of Gator, extending my hands to ask if I can look at his arm. He is panicked, pupils blown wide from the pain, but I shush him gently and continue to reach closer, like coaxing a wounded animal. Seeing the way he is suffering is actually physically hurting me somewhere deep in my brain. Almost as if he can sense that, he subtly shifts his shoulder so we can both glance down at his trembling wrist. At the sight of the break he retches again, but I'm able to catch him before he topples over.

I tear the hem of my stretchy cotton top about 6 inches deep all the way around until I have a hearty strip of fabric. I squish his cheeks between my fingers to make him look at me, then I mime how I want him to hold his arm, loosely bent at the chest. He hisses and his face curls in pain, but he manages to do as I ask. Working quickly, I secure the band under his forearm and tie it behind his neck, then I pat him twice softly on the shoulder to signal him to try releasing the weight of his arm to allow the sling to cradle it. A shaky, hesitant breath escapes him as his muscles relax, but I see the tension loosen when he realizes the arm is indeed held securely in place.

He glances up, and for a fleeting moment I think he sees me. Just as a smile begins to curl at the corner of my lips, an ear-splitting bang cuts through the air.

a few disclaimers- this story contains a lot of sensitive themes including but not limited to drug & alcohol use, eventual smut, LOTS of angst and mentions of religion.

SERIES MASTERLIST (w.c. 100k)

complete✅

*flash-forward*

Chapter 0.

*backstory*

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3.

Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6.

*boston college*

Chapter 7. Chapter 8. Chapter 9.

Chapter 10. Chapter 11. Chapter 12.

Chapter 13. Chapter 14. Chapter 15.

Chapter 16. Chapter 17. Chapter 18.

Chapter 19. Chapter 20. Chapter 21.

Chapter 22. Chapter 23. Chapter 24.

Chapter 25. Chapter 26. Chapter 27.

Chapter 28. Chapter 29. Chapter 30.

Chapter 31. Chapter 32. Chapter 33.

Chapter 34. Chapter 35. Chapter 36.

Chapter 37. Chapter 38. Chapter 39.

Chapter 40. Chapter 41. Chapter 42.

Chapter 43. Chapter 44. Chapter 45.

Chapter 46. Chapter 47.

Book 2 announcement!!